Rekindling in Southwest Asia

Let me tell you about my condition. 

It could be Irritable Bowel Syndrome or a maze of food intolerances, but whatever the title, I am in possession of a sensitive gastro-intestinal tract.  My GI tract would rather pack a picnic lunch and read poems than crawl through the mud and go to war.  My GI tract cares very little about my childhood dreams of being GI Joe.  In turn, my childhood dreams care very little about the sensitive needs of my GI tract.

You know that quote, shoot for the moon and you’ll land among the stars?  Through trial and error, I have determined that is wishy-washy nonsense, liberal propaganda at best.  The quote should be re-phrased, shoot for the moon and you’ll land at a Manas Transit Center in Kyrgyzstan en route to Operation Enduring Freedom. 

I imagine Kyrgyzstan would be a great hiking destination; a large mountain range sets the backdrop behind the Hesco barriers and concertina wire.  However, as Uncle Sam is writing my itineraries, I am not allowed to venture beyond the boundaries of the airbase.  This leaves me with the privilege of army chow, with the privilege of reliving the realization that the Army, in step with my dreams, cares very little about the sensitive needs of my GI tract. 

A dining guide for the Transit Center at Manas:

I typed “gluten-free friendly in Kyrgyzstan” in the Urbanspoon.com search bar but the Colonel Mac’s DFAC does not pop-up in the results listing.

The Army Dining Facility (DFAC) is a cross between a college dining hall and charity soup kitchen.  The ambition of the former but the food quality of the latter.  Flat-screen televisions adorn the walls, but the meat is not 100% grass-fed Harris Ranch beef.  Cheap meat often uses wheat/gluten as filler.  Current event reference—the Taco Bell beef exposed as 68% isolate oat product.  The location changes and the food items rotate but the basics two options remain: 1. take a risk 2.  Fruit and water.

I keep almonds and gluten-free, dairy-free, corn-free, oat-free, wheat-free, peanut-free, corn starch-free, buckwheat-free, egg-free (more simply put— “Andrew Friendly”) energy/food bars in my backpack. But,  I have been unable receive supply shipments for two-weeks and the Army & Air Force Exchange does not carry a wide variety of “Andrew Friendly” food.  In short, I am running low on supplies and if my stay in Manas is extended I will resort to cannibalism as, historically, this is the appropriate response in emergency situations. 

A running guide

Just outside the Hesco barriers is a soft-dirt trail that loops through a section of trees and wild, un-manicured grass.  Look on the base map for “Fitness Trail.”  The loop is approximately three miles of mostly flat, wide trail, which could easily accommodate a group run or 5k morale fun run.  There are enough trees to block any potential for a scenic mountain view but not enough to effectively block the sun.  I recommend running with Yurbud in-ear headphones, their supreme fit and audio quality are the perfect escape from the construction and jet noise.

All I do is Win, except for when I don’t

A barbed wire divides subdivision streets and the Wild West  in an area just north of Cheyenne city limits.  I cross the wire slowly, lifting one leg at a time, careful not to snag my new Levis.  I follow my future father in-law; we leave a trail of footprints in the snow.  After ten minutes and two small hills, he quietly announced that we are in the right place.  With his boots, he makes a circle in the snow and we sit cross-legged, waiting to awaken my warrior spirit, waiting for the coyote.

I stare at the surrounding hills, caressing each dip and rise with my gaze, waiting.  My future father in-law blows air through a commercially made coyote call.  I lock the bolt forward and chamber a round.  I adjust my body, resting my face close enough to the scope so the entire circle is bathed in light.  Cradling the barrel is a stand my future father in-law fashioned out of two sticks.  I softly swing the crosshairs back and forth over the landscape. 

This is not hunting in the “hunter gather” sense, but hunting purely to dull an emotional aversion to killing humans.  This is training for Afghanistan.    

We wait in the snow for close to an hour then follow our footsteps back to the house, unchanged.

Into the Frying Pan

Feet up and book in my lap, I am working at the extended stay hotel in south Denver, again—of course, when I say ‘working’ I mean that I am balancing the life and death of patrons in five-minute intervals. I am three pages from the end of a chapter when I hear that beep-beep-beep sound trucks make when in reverse. I keep reading, waiting for the noise to go away. It doesn’t. I look outside but I don’t see any trucks. Truck noise with no trucks, this is a mystery. I am about to keep reading, trying to get to the end of the paragraph, when the realization settles in my mind like a gentle snowfall: fire and smoke alarms make beeping noises too—damn.

I adjust the weapons belt around my waist and fling open the door to the hallway. Game time. I would love to write that my mind was racing but that would be a blatant lie. Sluggish from energy drink withdrawals, my mind is slowly warming up and keeps repeating the same thought: I don’t remember the words to “Navidad, Navidad,” how will I save the Latina in Lacy lingerie?

I did not have to walk far to “investigate the warning” which is good because my legs are still sore from 12-miles of endurance training on Wednesday. The door directly across from my room is ajar and smoke is sauntering out in a melancholy fashion, we appear to have matching levels of ambition. A girl in her mid-twenties is holding a spatula in one hand, she uses the other to prop open the door. She is wearing pajamas. A man’s voice inside asks if he should pour water on it.

“Did you open the window?” I ask the girl in pajamas.

She says, “Yes,” and with that, I walk away. Leaving the decisions to the girl involved always seems to work for me.

When You Are Engulfed in Flames

For Rent: one mildly attractive, 24-year old, college dropout. 5’10”. 180lbs. Moderately athletic build. Brown hair. Blue eyes.

Pay in cash and he will fulfill your fantasy, your needs. For only $9/hour, he will accompany the construction site through the night. For only $9/hour, he will attend a wedding or quienceañera, but don’t ask him to dance, he will only stand at the door. For only $9/hour, he will be the personification of a fire alarm system for an extended stay hotel during a remodel. For only $9/hour, he will be your anything.


The sign in the parking lot advertises “Studios Kitchens from $189.99 weekly,” there is no mention of the other, more refined amenities. A few examples: the wonderful aroma—a drywall plaster, cigarette smoke, and dirty carpet concoction that permeates the hallways; the ambient noise— a cacophony of television sets, bored children and short tempered parents always audible in the hallways; the security— a mildly attractive, 24-year old security guard who walks the afore mentioned hallways every twenty minutes. It’s this last feature that I find the most unnerving.

Because of the renovation process, the hotel’s fire emergency system is partially disabled so I am filling in—I am a rented set of crutches—as required by the fire marshal. Every twenty minutes, I walk each hallway (past the non-smoking rooms on the third floor that reek of marijuana) doing a modified version of the Look, Listen & Feel drill from CPR. I Look for signs of fire, I Listen for a fire alarm and I Feel a tired resilience built from twelve-hour shifts and Red Bull.

“Foot patrol of all three floors and stairs,” I write in my reports, “No signs of leaks, smoke, or fire. I did not hear any fire alarms. The fire alarm panel is clear. No guests smoking in the hallways.” The patrol takes roughly five minutes, giving me a fifteen-minute window before I have to start again. This is just enough time to update my Facebook status, masturbate to online porn, snack on sea salt roasted, California almonds, etc. “Foot patrol of all three floors and stairs…”

If I do stumble upon a fire alarm, I have a detailed list of instructions to guide me: 1. “In case of alarm proceed to main fire box and use proper procedure to silence alarm.” 2. “After silencing the alarm proceed to the area indicated on the fire panel and investigate the warning.”

There are no further instructions. Letting my imagination fill in the blank space, I teeter between two fantasies:

1. In slow motion, I kick down the door of a studio kitchen suite on the second floor, fire extinguisher in my right hand; I use my left hand to scoop up a Latina wearing lacy lingerie. I throw the damsel over my shoulder (my left one because the metal plate in my right shoulder aches in the winter) and run to a secluded place, where I serenade her—with a romantic song I learned from the free CoffeeBreakSpanish podcast—as the building burns down behind us. Navidad, Navidad, hoy es Navidad, con campanas este día hay que festejar. Navidad, Navidad, porque ya nació, ayer noche, Nochebuena, el niñito Dios

2. After discovering a fire and a smoldering set of curtains (caused by a lit joint in a non-smoking room on the third floor), I run to my suite on the second floor and quickly stuff my laptop, iPod, Perfect Push-Up travel set, and lunch box into my backpack. As I sprint down the staircase, taking stairs two at a time, I’ll dial 911 then wait for the fire truck in my car while snacking on sea salt roasted, California almonds.

Feeling a bit peckish, I am leaning toward the latter. If they tenants knew the line between living and being engulfed in flames balanced on my weary shoulders, would they smile at me in the hallways? Or move to a different hotel?

I’d leave, pack boxes and move, but I’m scheduled here again tomorrow.

Getting the Most out of my Gym Membership

Its 5:30, the sun has punched out for the day and the thermometer outside my window reads 0˚. I pull on a pair of store-brand polyester pants and a t-shirt from a charity 5k. I am going to milk the last drops of my daily ambition and hit the gym—some treadmill intervals, some weights, and finish off with a 20-minute scramble up the Stairmaster. While waiting for my iPod to sync, a Pro-Con list builds in my head.

Pro: I would feel silly walking around the house in gym pants
Con: I look silly walking around in gym pants
Pro: Exercise is healthy
Con: A hot bowl of gluten-free chicken noodle soup is healthy

I turn on the stove.

Obligatory New Year’s Resolution 2011

“We cannot become what we need to be by remaining what we are”
– Max Depree

Haiku

lunar eclipse: coy
moon blushes, baiting the
werewolf population

Pushing "Play"

I paused my writing, not because I don’t love and adore both of my followers, but because I had been swept away in a whirlwind of adventures and I had forgotten that I had started a blog in the first place. Please forgive me, although, I am sure it will happen again.

Updates on the workings of the world:

1. In Malaysia, everyone drives a scooter.

2. In Spain, wine is cheap and abundant; however, Sin Gluten food is only located in the supermarkets far from the resort.

3. In Gibraltar, seriously, beware of the monkeys.

4. The Big Sur Half Marathon, 13.1 miles, is much more pain and agony that it sounds like.

Updates on myself:

1. I have surrendered to the side-effects and have abruptly stopped all intentional intake of wheat, gluten, buckwheat, oats, milk, butter, eggs and cheese. (this leaves me with a diet of mostly cardboard and corn tortillas)

2. I will deploy in May 2011

3. I am still stunning and handsome. Evidence below,

sprinting to the finish line of the Big Sur Half Marathon 14 November 2010 for a time of 2hr 24 min 9 sec


Updates on my 2010 New Year’s Resolution:

Resolution 1: Publish a Short Story in a Literary Magazine. Status - Incomplete, will recycle for 2011

Resolution 2: Get a Full-Time (real) Job. Status - Incomplete, no longer relevant with looming deployment

Resolution 3: Take Down Christmas Lights. Status- Absence of proof is not proof of absence; therefore, I declare this a SUCCESS!

Resolution 4a: Army Physical Fitness Test score of 275. Status – Failure

Resolution 4b: Capture all Xbox 360 Achievement points for The Elder Scrolls 4: Oblivion. Status- In progress.

1.5 out of 4.5, I declare 2010 a failure and am calling for a mulligan

Dining Out with Uncle Sam

I am dining downtown at a restaurant with cloth napkins, I raise a glass of crafted beer to toast Uncle Sam for taking me out.
“Thank you for giving back
some
of that money you took
from me
last year”

I just received my tax refund, and (I’m “Spilling while I’m sipping” because I’ve got Money to Blow…) as a true American patriot I am immediately donating the money to the suffering economy via large corporate retailers and restaurants who’s failure would have a significantly moderate impact on my daily affairs.
(I also paid my fiancée for my half of the last two months rent but that is not as glamorous as the previous and I just spent the last 12 hours at the gate of a construction site checking in people who bring home more bacon than I do so I am hording all the glamour points I can counterfeit because they don’t grow on the trees in my backyard.)

Here is the breakdown-
I have a car: +2 Glamour Points
But it is a 1996 Subaru Outback station wagon: -1 GP
with a tape deck: -1 GP
I have a tattoo: +1 GP
of a 1984 book quote: -1 GP
I have a job: +1 GP
as a rent-a-cop: -34 GP

Total = -33 Glamour Points

Feeling Good about Failure

The day started with a bang. A bang about the size of an M-150 firecracker smuggled across the Colorado-Wyoming border. So to be more specific, the day started with a largely insignificant and mostly unsatisfying bang. My buddy and I set out to change that.

An M-150 firecracker is a small cylinder with hardened light gray stuff and powdery dark gray stuff packed inside. A green fuse runs in from the top. I don’t know how much these things cost, I didn’t ask, but I do know that if a person runs a saw blade down the side of the cardboard cylinder, the different color stuffs can be segregated. The light gray stuff does not catch on fire, but if a person was to crush it up then add small amounts of water it can be reshaped, molded to fit the size of a small pill bottle spray painted black. The dark grey stuff is the moneymaker. It is packed in a smaller cylinder that encases the bottom of the green fuse. This is the sound and the fury.

We dissect seven firecrackers with wavering precision. Light gray matter spills onto the kitchen table, the kitchen floor, onto my jeans.
If my fiancée was here …

With Scotch tape, four inner cylinders are fastened together and a Dremel tool is used to drill a hole in the top of the pill bottle for the fuse. By definition, this is an Improvised Explosive Device.

I get the video camera

The fuse sparks up and we start to run for cover behind my car. Glorious yellow orange sparks illuminate a small section of the parking lot behind my apartment building. In my mind, I am adding this to my resume as an example of creativity, resourcefulness, self-motivation.

The fuse burns for less an half a second then fizzles out. No fireball, no explosion. We wait behind my car for three minutes before walking up and hesitantly kicking it over.

We try the fuse again but nothing happens. I unlock the dumpster and we throw it away.

Witness to only the realization of my ineptitude as a terrorist, and that is surprisingly more satisfying than the alternative.